


Angels, Like Glorified Pigeons,

by Dorotheian



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Awkward First Times, Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Fluff, Gender Roles, Genderbending, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hell is Differently Terrible, M/M, Multi, Nesting, Self-assimilated to Earth, Wingfic, angels making an effort, edging into Drama, erogenous zone wings, escalated quickly, preening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19790548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorotheian/pseuds/Dorotheian
Summary: Aziraphale's nesting instincts kick in, to his confusion and embarassment. Crowley is game for it.





	1. Nesting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ariaste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariaste/gifts).



Aziraphale preened—no, not in the sense that he basked in compliments. Though he did quite like giving and receiving compliments, that he couldn’t deny. He would be very pleased if Crowley noticed his wings on any given day.

No, at this moment he was running his fingers through the feathers of his wings with zenlike concentration, looking for feathers that snagged or slipped out of place, and plucked those that were coming loose. He preened until his wings gleamed and the feathers rippled in patterns of perfection. Preening was usually meditative. It quieted the mind.

Except today, once again, it was taking far too long before he became satisfied. There were no flaws in the pattern that he could spot, no itches, no nothing. The feathers were evenly oiled. The ordeal should have been over. Aziraphale shook his wings in irritation, but couldn't shake the dull ache of _something-missing_ that pervaded them.

Lately the urge to preen intensified whenever he was around Crowley. In fact, Crowley was supposed to pick him up in about ten minutes. He wanted to look presentable for Crowley, of course, but that didn’t fully explain it. It wasn't nervousness, either. They had lived on Earth for thousands of years together and knew each other well: it was out of the question. Crowley didn’t make Aziraphale nervous, though he certainly could have that effect on other people. It was true that Crowley sometimes gave him butterflies in his stomach, but he also gave him stomach flops, stomach drops, and stomach clenches…because Crowley had a talent for worming his way into tight spots that no mortal would escape alive, but Aziraphale had no fear of him. Only, when he dared to admit it, _for_ him, sometimes, but it was vanishingly rarely warranted...

The doorbell rang. Good Lord, was it that time already? Crowley must have arrived early. Aziraphale leapt to his feet in a panic and hurriedly stuffed all the feathers he had just pulled out into his coat pockets and tucked the last one behind his ear before running to the door and yanking it open in a hurry, willing his wings into non-existence at the last second.

"I'm ready, I'm ready—"

Crowley raised an eyebrow high enough that it could be seen over his sunglasses, and said mildly, "Had a nice molt?"

Flustered, Aziraphale stammered, "I—oh— Yes of course," and mentally kicked himself: it was nothing of the kind. It wasn’t even the right season for it, but would Aziraphale tell him that? _No_.

He wondered what he could say in a few years when next he noticed Crowley was about to shed his skin. It was an itchy process that, if he stayed in human form, made his skin pinken and peel as if he was recovering from a large sunburn, and made Crowley even more tetchy and adorable until it all came off and his skin suddenly became lucent and baby-soft to the touch. On second thought, he probably shouldn't draw his attention to it. Crowley could be sensitive.

"So where are we going today?" Crowley leaned rakishly on the doorjamb, dressed to the nines in his usual leather jacket and snakeskin boots.

Right. Feeling scattered, Aziraphale dug in his vest pockets for his keys to lock up with, then remembered to check for his wallet. "I---ah. The retreat."

"The retreat," Crowley repeated, and took several hasty steps backwards as Aziraphale advanced on the door.

"I booked us an evening at a cozy cottage place," said Aziraphale, crowding Crowley off the doorstep so he could lock up the shop from the outside. "They have hot springs, home-cooking, and barbeque. It's very private."

"Unusual..." said Crowley, with a flatly perplexed stare. "A little low-brow for you, isn't it? I thought you said restaurants don't do home-cooking justice and diners are ' _a waste of time and cuisine_ '," he said, with mocking air quotes.

"I meant it when I said I couldn't do it justice myself! I....I know the cook," said Aziraphale, blushing again. "They owe me a favor. It's not just some fancy restaurant. I've been planning this for weeks, you know," Aziraphale confessed. "But just this once, I wanted something indulgent, something we don't normally get to treat ourselves to..."

Crowley stepped forward and kissed him above the ear, just above the feather. Aziraphale, surprised, went white-hot and very, very still.

"It's cute," Crowley murmured. "Let's go, angel." Draping an arm over Aziraphale's shoulders, Crowley steered him to the car.

* * *

Unusually for him, Crowley took his time and stuffed himself on everything within reach at dinner: scones and butter and jam, potatoes, cranberry sauce, pasta, fish and chips, steak and chili. Aziraphale guessed that meant he had liked it for its own sake, rather than merely for his company. He pondered. Could Crowley feel the love put into that meal? Had that made the difference?

If asked, Crowley would just deny it, of course. But he wondered.

Right now Crowley was napping beneath an apple tree to sleep off the heavy meal, his glasses folded neatly on the ground and tucked between some tree roots. Aziraphale was going mad over the state of his wings, which should have been perfectly, thoroughly groomed already, and hoped against hope that Crowley wouldn’t wake up until he finished. Aziraphale hated being watched. Grooming was _personal_ , and this was getting…this was getting… absurd. Why couldn’t he _stop?_

When he came back to himself he shook his wings briskly to be sure that the ritual was well and truly finished. He didn’t quite trust the vague, smug sense of satisfaction he felt… the madness was just waiting to pounce on him again. Aziraphale sighed.

An alarmingly large pile of feathers ended up beside him and Crowley. Looking at his prone body, Aziraphale felt a wave of indignation. The ground had to be uncomfortable. Aziraphale got up and walked around him restlessly. If only he could prop him up without waking him. Well—for that matter, how much could he do without waking him?

Shrugging to himself, Aziraphale pulled out a handful of feathers from his pocket and got to work. He tucked them under Crowley’s head and edged them inwards all around his body. He had already made a three-foot-wide halo around him when Crowley stirred. Aziraphale froze as if he had been caught at something deeply forbidden, and fought the urge to run or explode back into the heavens. He hovered.

Crowley picked up a white feather between his fingers and squinted at it. “Errr…what’s this?” He patted the ground around him—soft—and sat up, looking confused. “A _nest?_ Aziraphale? Do you mean...?”

The world went soundless and quiet, except for the sound of Aziraphale’s heart beating powerfully in his ears. He had been caught. He dropped the feathers where he stood and drew his wings about him as tightly as he could, obscuring himself from view, and wrapped his arms around his knees.

Crowley said softly, “Angel?” A tentative hand touched Aziraphale's back. “Angel? All you all right?”

It was not all right. He did not know what he had been doing, only that it was _instinct_ and he thought his heart would break if Crowley rejected the sign. Sign of _what_? He didn’t know. Aziraphale said tightly, "Go away, Crowley."

Crowley ignored this, crouching to study him. "Not just a simple molt after all, is it? Blast. I should have known. You were showing all the signs."

"What do you know about it?" Aziraphale probed miserably.

Crowley was evasive. "I saw it plenty of times, a long time ago, when one angel became close to another, during Creation. I guess you didn't...? It happened a lot among the architects, they worked in pairs. I'd almost forgotten." Crowley was quiet. "I never thought..."

"What is it?"

"Nesting. We called it nesting."

Aziraphale uncurled, a little. "Tell me."

"Angels, my dear, are like glorified rock pigeons... A joke that no one was able to fully appreciate until She finally _made_ pigeons." Crowley's voice was exasperated but affectionate. "When like meets like, one makes a nest. A little offering. They spruce up their place to stay and make it welcoming." He rolled his eyes, but his voice became soft. "It says they consider home to be one another, first and foremost. No need to be shy…”

Aziraphale lowered one wing, so Crowley could see his face. "You...like it?"

"I could not have imagined a more perfect proposal," said Crowley, serious, studying him again. "Your wings must be itching like mad." Aziraphale blinked.

"I'm not sure it's an itch, I just can't..."

"Can't stop," Crowley finished. "Too much energy. Dissatisfied. Can't shake it."

Aziraphale nodded.

"Well, I can remedy that. Would you let me try?"

"Please," murmured Aziraphale.

Crowley drew small circles on Aziraphale’s back, right between the shoulderblades and the point between his wings, touching with only the soft tips of his fingers. Slowly, Aziraphale let himself relax and laughed at himself under his breath.

He glanced at Crowley over his shoulder. "Have you ever...nested?"

"Nnnn," said Crowley, looking uncomfortable. "I could have, two or three times over the centuries." He made a scoffing sound. “But you weren't ready for that."

"What did you do? You must have gone mad. I never suspected. Never saw a feather out of place."

"Just...dust baths and cold showers, when I had to. And...too much plucking. And pining." Crowley worked in silence. “I left the country to cover for it till the urge passed. Proximity made it worse. If you'd seen me you would have been troubled, and pity wouldn't have helped either of us." He paused. "If you’re done twisting yourself into knots,” Crowley said, his voice sounding oddly far away, as if he had been dreaming of this for a long time, “would you let me…touch your wings?”

Aziraphale let them unfold at his request. Crowley picked through them rather clinically at first, like a vet, maybe, or someone leafing through pages of books, until he found the most likely spot under the wing-wrist. He lightly stroked the spot underneath the feathers, and Aziraphale’s whole body sagged and tilted to the side. Crowley snatched his hand back. “Perhaps, ah, would you rather lie down, instead? I’ve been napping like an inanimate lump here afternoon; you should make yourself comfortable.”

Aziraphale nodded and lay face down with his hands lightly set on the ground in front of him. Crowley straddled his back, and Aziraphale was suffused by a wave of pleasure. “Just let me know if it’s too much, if you want me to stop, or if you need more pointed pressure,” said Crowley. “I’ve never groomed anyone else’s wings before.”

Aziraphale made a tiny inadvertent groan.

"You like that, do you?" Crowley ran his fingers under the feathers, both sides, rubbing lightly with the pads of his fingers as he went, disturbing the downy layer.

"Yes." It was an odd sensation, feeling Crowley adjusting the tilt of each feather, feeling them part and knock together again. Aziraphale lifted his wings, adjusting to compensate for the disturbance caused.

"Ha, you're ticklish," Crowley laughed.

"Just keep going." Aziraphale pressed himself flat to the ground and closed his eyes, putting every ounce of mindfulness he had into controlling his wings. It required the precise attention of flying through a storm and awareness of every feather.

“Yes, yes, of course I’ll get on with it. Angel.” Where Crowley stroked, Aziraphale leaned into the touch, the tips of his feathers quivering unsteadily.

“It shouldn’t feel this good,” Aziraphale whispered, as phantom frissions of fire ripped up and down his back. “I’ve always taken care of—”

"Oh no, you don't," Crowley breathed in his ear, “not another word,” and pressed his lips possessively to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, under the ear.

Aziraphale twisted and gasped, “No, don’t stop!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Angel.” Crowley pressed a row of kisses into his neck and down his spine, and stroked beneath his primaries at the same time. Aziraphale’s wings heaved and flexed. “I didn’t realize how…dynamic…”

Aziraphale let out a little cry.

“…staying on top of you would be. Ahh, you’re very powerful.” Crowley’s snake tongue flicked out, touching the top of Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale’s hips bucked. Crowley wriggled and rolled with the movement, burying his fingers deep beneath the covert feathers to rub the skin there, moving in tiny circles towards the hefty wing muscles.

“ _Harder_ ,” Aziraphale gasped, grinding himself into the earth.

“I’m afraid I’m ssstretched to my limit already,” Crowley admitted, wondering if he ought to switch to snake form, or not, “There’s only ssssso much I can reaccch— but I’ll try.” He adjusted his position and stretched himself lean to squeeze Aziraphale's hips between his knees.

“ _Unh_ ,” said Aziraphale, collapsing, and seized hold of the grass before he bucked again and his wings nearly threw Crowley when they caught him by surprise.

“Hhhhh!” Crowley gasped as if kicked by a horse, and manifested his own black wings, beating the air to hover in place. Aziraphale rolled onto his back, wings stretched lightly over the earth, and Crowley flew to grip Aziraphale by the shoulders. "Are you ssssure...?"

Aziraphale pulled his face down for a deep kiss and tangled their legs together, wings thumping wildly against the ground, throwing up dust, turning the pure white of his wings a light sandy brown. “ _Shhh_.”

“ _Ngkkkk..._.” Crowley choked on a hiss. Blinking, he scented the air and flicked Aziraphale’s ear again, so that Aziraphale arched, flinging his head back. “All this trouble… just because you’re _nessssting…_.” Crowley pretended to complain, his words ghosting Aziraphale’s lips.

Aziraphale grinned, filled with wild fondness and delight, and snuggled closer.

Crowley nudged a knee between Aziraphale’s legs and grinned back with a flash of his teeth. “I’m home to you. You’re home to me. You don’t….get out of thissss… _._ sssssssso easssily….”

“You fucking _rhymed_ ,” Aziraphale choked, with unabashed delight, and blushed. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

Crowley thrummed his wings and hissed for good measure. “ _Sssshut up._ ”

“I love you,” said Aziraphale, and tightened his— _her_?—thighs around Crowley’s body. A change in intent, or desire…

Crowley’s wings clapped together, once, and he shouted in surprise when Aziraphale kicked off the ground and twisted, flipping them over once more. “Ahh…more slowly?” Crowley said, from beneath Aziraphale, as he awkwardly straightened his wings against the ground.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, beaming, and bent to kiss him. “Crowley, you are lovely.” She raked long white curls askew, flinging them back from her face.

Crowley squirmed, more out of acute embarrassment at the compliment, and her _attention_ , though he did need to get into a better position on the ground underneath her. “A-a-angel…”

“Yes?”

“Sssslower….” Crowley wriggled until he felt comfortable. "Let me adjusssst..." There. He was free. He wiggled his shoulders and propped himself up on his elbows to breathe, then lay back.

"I feel so _happy_. Sorry. How can I feel so—? You make me so _happy_." Aziraphale flushed and covered her face, peeking back at him through her fingers. “It’s the gender, isn’t it? I-I-I got so— _suddenly_ , and I…I had to change. I don’t know why.”

Crowley shook his head, cutting her off with a finger against her lips. “Don’t! Just don't...apologize.” Crowley lifted a hand to her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple through her untransformed waistcoat, almost tenderly, and shook his head. “I'm _flattered_ that you would try. You just caught me by surprise. One thing at a time.” He felt pensive. “I need to thhhhink.”

“And I said _you_ were the fast one,” Aziraphale said marveling, leaning closer, catching his hand, and Crowley brushed his other hand through her lengthening white hair.

“You want kids? Little angels? Is that it?” Crowley threaded his fingers through hers. "Right now?" He wasn't opposed to the possibility, he supposed. But things were never simple... He didn't want to panic.

“No! No, I don’t know what I want,” Aziraphale laughed. “Just you. Just to be happy with you.”

"Well then." No kids, if Aziraphale did not wish for them and open a womb; that was something to think about...later, to Crowley's relief. “We'll be making love next, I think,” said Crowley, and kissed her.

Aziraphale sat back, preening. “Now where would that be done?” she teased him.

“Traditionally, amongst the stars,” said Crowley wryly. “Where this works better. Easier to concentrate on floating without gravity, or falling.”

Aziraphale laughed, bright and vibrant. “But it’s so much rougher and more rewarding here, contending with gravity! Such _fun_!”

The struggle did seem to be part of the point. Crowley chuckled. “But even better, in a house, if you'll allow me to get up.”

Aziraphale sprang to her feet, laughing as Crowley chased her in a zigzag back to the cottage—and kicked the door shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of opened up a whole can of worms at the end with Aziraphale (I wasn't planning for that to happen when I was writing it!) so I'm hoping I can explore that topic a little more in subsequent chapters.
> 
> Facts about rock pigeons: https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/rock-pigeon


	2. Code

Their first attempt at sex progressed in nervous fits and starts, and though they were only half-successful in their goal they were still pleased at the end of it. They quit the effort before they became utterly exhausted. Ticklishness made Aziraphale easily overstimulated and neither quite knew how to gracefully take or cede control. Still, they had learned some things. Aziraphale fretted, but Crowley did not mind the process of discovery at all. He was equally content to cuddle with Aziraphale and talk of other matters.

“See, what I don’t understand is how you could have missed it,” says Crowley, propping himself up on one elbow on the bed. “How could you not have known about nesting?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“I mean, where were you posted, in the beginning? Granted, architects don’t see each other that much, but there were annual meetings. You wouldn't believe the drama. Tearful goodbyes and impulsive exchanges and promises of 'we'll write' and 'until next century’ and 'my thoughts to your thoughts' and such a lot of slobbering— Worse than popular showings of _Romeo and Juliet_ —” Crowley waved a hand.

“I was in the choirs.” Aziraphale sat up and switched to a cross-legged position, leaning forward.

“See, but that's the thing, the choirs ought to have been the worst of the lot,” said Crowley, frowning. “All that love, worship—didn’t it go to someone’s head?”

Aziraphale wracked her memory, hugging her knees. “No.”

“Are you telling me nobody even _exchanged feathers_?”

Aziraphale raked her fingers through her hair. “Oh, that…? All the time. Every blinking moment they weren't singing. Someone was tucking feathers into someone else’s hair, tickling each others’ scalps, blowing down in each other’s faces, combing each other’s hair with a sharpened quill, procuring ink and using their friends' feathers to doodle on each other’s arms…” Aziraphale sighed. "They were never on task, but they seemed so happy..."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “So…how young was that lot, incidentally?”

“Around 250 years, so mere children really, why?” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley pinched the skin of the bridge of his nose. “Because they were all the time _snogging_ right under your great big nose. Great big bucket of puppy love, and you never noticed. I thought that was _impossible_.”

“But it was constant! And no harm done that I could see. That was _snogging_?”

“People didn’t really talk to you back then, did they?”

“Mmm... I suppose not. Day in, day out, singing constantly. No.”

“Bummer. They should have.” Crowley sat back and punched a pillow. “Wonder why they didn’t.”

“Why should they?”

Crowley’s lips thinned. “Because you’re worth more than ten of each of them, that’s why.”

“Crowley!”

“It’s the truth...." He trailed off, thinking. "Perhaps they thought you already knew.”

"Well, they might have done," said Aziraphale in a small voice. "Upper management only ever said my choir perpetually lacked 'discipline.' I tried everything I could think of, short of punishing everyone, but..."

Crowley waved a hand. "They were using code words. Reason the First: Plausible deniability. Second: Glass cliff."

Aziraphale went white. "Oh. You mean..." _Even back then, they hated me, but I barely noticed._

"Probably," said Crowley. "Stiff upper lip and all that. Nobody up there ever says what they mean. Even you, angel. You speak in a high context language, always. If you don't already know what they are talking about, if you never picked it up from your peers, how could you possibly know what they were really saying?"

Aziraphale shook her head. "That's just a theory."

"Do you remember what it was like, being two-fifty?"

"That was a long time ago, and I don't particularly remember that decade being more memorable than any of the other years," said Aziraphale, frowning. "Everyone else went very strange for a while, and didn't act the same towards me anymore. It was almost like I had done something to offend them, but I had no idea what."

"Oh for—" Crowley jackknifed, flipped off the bed, and crashed into the opposite wall. He whirled around. "How old are you again?"

"Nearing my sixth millennium," Aziraphale reflected, brushing a strand of curled hair behind one ear. "You?"

"Well, of course the same!"

"Then why did you ask me?" Aziraphale said blankly.

"To confirm," said Crowley. "No ill-advised adolescent bouts of longing and pining?"

Aziraphale wrinkled her nose. "You mean soppy crushes like young humans get?"

"Yes, pretty much exactly like young humans get! Except, around age two-fifty..."

"No," said Aziraphale. "I can't say I have. Never understood them. Did I miss something?"

"Only a teeny-tiny, insignificant piece of angelic cultural communication," said Crowley, making a face.

Aziraphale blinked slowly.

Crowley lost it. " _I'M_ YOUR FIRST CRUSH?" he shrieked. "FIRST _NEST?!?!!_ "

"Yes?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Aziraphale is THAT middle-school choir director, blithely doing his best to ignore the chaos, corral the talent, encourage his charges to _grow up_ , stay calm and carry on. He's a good teacher when he has everyone's attention. Classroom management just isn't really his thing, but he gets by with the essentials.
> 
> Kids will be kids.


	3. Faces

The shower was small like a closet and too cramped to maneuver well, so they had to vanish their wings. As it was, they stumbled over each other’s feet and fought over the tap and splashed quite a lot of water on each other before they settled on a tolerable temperature for them both. Crowley liked it scalding and Aziraphale preferred a medium temperature closer to lukewarm. The resulting compromise was slanted in Aziraphale’s favor. After a few minutes, Crowley transformed into a snake and sleepily wrapped himself around Aziraphale’s arms and shoulders, making himself comfortable. Aziraphale kept him free of her tangly hair and squeaked whenever he glided over a ticklish spot. Aziraphale’s hair didn’t need it per se, but she washed her hair with the complimentary soap anyway, humming cheerfully and absentmindedly dripping all over Crowley.

“This may be a strange question, but do you make some kind of...mental map of my body when you do that?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley looped himself over her shoulders for the sixth time.

 _Yesssss_ , replied Crowley. _But it is only ssssssensual. I sssssee and feeeeel only in part. I am curiousssss only. It does not arouse._

“Could you transform back for a bit, love?”

Crowley obediently flowed from her arm and in a second was standing on his feet again with a faintly quizzical expression. “What?”

Aziraphale turned off faucet. “You don’t have a crush as a snake, do you?”

Crowley’s expression stayed perplexed. “The sexual awareness component is gone in that state, yes.”

“But you still _love_ me. I can feel that.”

“Hmm,” said Crowley, considering. “I suppose that’s so. Why?”

“My first crush—” Aziraphale turned pink. “I realized I fell in love with you in 1941,” she said, nearly inaudibly. “But I didn't feel a crush until 1967. You said something then...”

_The bombed-out church. The ‘heist.’_

Crowley stared at her. "Why didn't you...?"

“Does it make sense now?”

Crowley thought back. “It does now, a bit, yeah,” he said finally.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Do _you_ mind?” Crowley countered, sliding a hand over her hip. Aziraphale shook her head, pulling him closer. “Because it seems you know how to make up for lost time...”

Bodies were not an obstacle.

* * *

“Aziraphale,” Crowley called to get her attention, stepping out of his shower. “I was wondering— How long are you going to appear female?” Crowley asked cautiously, as he dried his feet on the mat. “Or stand in front of the looking glass, for that matter? Are we talking days, months, or…”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale put down the disposable hairbrush and turned from the mirror in which she had been studying herself carefully. “As long as I feel _domestic_ , I expect. I like being cared for. This body is more comfortable than I thought. It’s sweet when you get all uncertain and turn into a gentleman. And….” She hesitated. “I want to travel and be recognized _together_. So just for a little while. To know what it's like for our relationship to be known.”

“Oh.” That thought had not crossed Crowley’s mind.

“Not in order to be recognized by heaven or hell, of course,” Aziraphale faltered. “But…”

Crowley shrugged. “They already knew about us. They just didn’t care to prove it.”

“Well of course they _knew_...” Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped.

“They didn’t take us seriously.”

“That.” Aziraphale frowned and ran her fingers through her hair, then up her scalp, looking frustrated.

“Something off?”

“I grew long hair because that’s how I default-picture ‘female,’ but after only a few hours it just doesn’t feel right,” Aziraphale admitted. “I start young, but I’m already starting to wrinkle. I don’t mind wrinkling, of course, but I'd rather it to be on _purpose_! I just don’t have much practice _seeing_ myself in this form.” She scowled in vexation for a second, and darted a swift glance at Crowley. “Seemed like you did that more frequently.”

Crowley only shrugged. “It throws me off guard, seeing you so youthful,” Crowley said after a moment. “Can’t quite wrap my mind around it. I almost forget who you are, even though it’s just another facet of you. It makes me...careful.”

Aziraphale tilted her head and looked him aside. “As flattering as that sounds, that’s not the effect I wish to have, love.”

Crowley sighed. “Trust me with scissors?” Crowley snipped the air with his fingers.

“Not on your life!” Aziraphale made a warding gesture.

Hands on his hips, Crowley looked amused. “All right, all right. I have an idea. Do you remember the James Bond movies?”

“You know I get the new ones all mixed up, and I forget the old ones entirely.”

“ _Skyfall_ , then. The one with the big theme sound and the sort of haunted house and the boss lady, M. She had white spiky-ish hair.”

“I don’t recall.”

“I’ll find you a picture. Ah, who’s the actor? Judi Dench.” Wrapping a towel around his waist, Crowley disappeared to rummage in his briefcase for the computer, found it, and typed his query. “Here it is.”

Aziraphale studied the image. “That’s... close,” she said finally.

Crowley grinned wickedly. “I thought so. Shall I...?”

“Don’t you dare!” Aziraphale glared. “ _I’ll_ fix it.” Pressing her fingers to her temples, she did. A diamond-shaped face framed by white, curly spikes of hair cropped at the sides just so, with kindly wrinkles around crystalline eyes. Eyes that could see straight through anyone and still find some reason to take pity; that looked at the world with single-minded intensity bent on finding the _good_ and the _great_ and the _sublime_. Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley was forcibly reminded of the first and only (possibly apocryphal) time he happened to meet the spirit of Wisdom on errantry (long before the incident with the forbidden fruit) and was not a little taken aback. But Aziraphale did, indeed, look like her comfortably plump and amiable self again. “Took inspiration from Sue Perkins?” He had glimpsed bits and pieces of the _Great British Baking Show_ over Aziraphale's shoulders a few times.

“Yes. And Emma Thompson, and Alex Kingston, and Hannah Gadsby....” Aziraphale trailed off.

Crowley glanced again at the mirror. “Do you think people will still believe we’re together?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Aziraphale, eyes widening in distress. “People will think I look _older_ than you now.”

Crowley stepped up to the mirror to eye their appearances more critically. “Mmnh. It shouldn’t take too much to convince people.”

“It would probably help if you could take the sunglasses off. If you looked a tad more grizzled and wolfish...”

“Ah. I need a prop.” Crowley grinned broadly. “A walking stick.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t mind me, I'm a little old man really, just an _eccentric_ ,” said Crowley, wringing his hands and popping the words with sarcasm. “Angel, I am _ageless_.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I could age myself back down.”

“Nahhh! Don’t bother. I know just the haircut.” Crowley snapped his fingers and grew his hair back to the right mane-length, and declared, “Yellow-eyed ginger werewolf in shades it is. Because my hair is _perfect_.” He flicked his hair. He did, in fact, look like a _classy_ sort of dishy.

“ _Awooooh_ ,” Aziraphale sang under her breath, raising an eyebrow. “Will you be walking the streets of Soho in the rain?”

“Hah!” Crowley scoffed and lightly punched her shoulder, leaving. “Draw blood...”

“Well, I’d like to meet your tailor!” Aziraphale called after him.

“That’s the line they should be giving _you_ , angel...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course they're quoting bits and pieces of Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" at the end there. Shout-out to the Young Wizards fandom if you recognized the word "errantry."
> 
> To get an idea of what Aziraphale's youthful lady-self looks like, you can refer to Makoyana's ineffable ladies at Deviantart here: https://www.deviantart.com/makoyana/art/Ineffable-ladies--803320838
> 
> Crowley finds her a bit blinding in that state. XD
> 
> I'm still working on a sketch for Aziraphale's older, plumper bookseller lady-self that satisfies me. Stay tuned.


	4. Abreast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so Aziraphale begins the search for suitable clothes.

_Idiot. Soft, daft, dolt, idiot. I should have expected this. Should have…_

Aziraphale held out his beloved vest, and swallowed hard. There was no way to squeeze through. Her shoulders barely fit through the armholes, and the buttons wouldn’t close over her breasts. Even the loose shirt didn’t hang properly, because it caught at the shoulders. She didn’t dare try on the trousers. It would only be an exercise in failure: yes, she was still rotund as before, but her hips had widened. Same mass, different shape. She let the clothes drop to the bed, sighed, and rubbed at the developing headache. When she had let herself change, it had been instinct. She’d been so cheerful she had forgotten. She hadn’t _foreseen_ …

“ _Shit_.” Crowley smacked himself in the forehead. “Correction, holy shit. I didn’t… Aziraphale, I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale _hated_ change, and she was particular about clothes. Crowley miracled the bulk of his outfits on the spot, but Aziraphale had always insisted on buying crafted works from trusted artisans. Unlike Crowley, she had never been that impressed with the offerings of the 20th century—at least not for herself, though Crowley thought she appreciated his own sense of style.

Aziraphale turned, pulling herself together with a valiant effort, an anxious pucker forming between her brows. “They don’t fit.” She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “I can’t—I won’t miracle them, Crowley. I shan’t change what they are. What will we _do_?”

Crowley blinked. “Get ourselves arrested for public indecency,” Crowley teased, but Aziraphale appeared even more crestfallen. Alarmed, Crowley pleaded. “Angel. Angel, it was only a joke, you know. I’m a demon. It’s what we do. _Temptations and mischief_.”

“It’ll make a ruckus,” Aziraphale fretted. “You _know_ Upstairs doesn’t like that…”

“Angel, no. Angel, look at me. Think!” Crowley seized Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale slowly, unwillingly, met Crowley’s eyes without turning her head; then, seeing sincerity, she sighed and met his gaze fully. “Angel, it was a joke. I would never, ever do that if you weren’t comfortable with it. I only thought… you know, in heaven…” Crowley licked his lips.

“Yes, it doesn’t matter there,” Aziraphale replied, hollowed by remembering. It was not that the angels of heaven were naked. Angels wore light; they made light their clothing. More ‘force’ than substance. “It’s not the same. But…”

“But we’re here. On Earth. I know.” Crowley squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched and she did not reply.

Crowley leaned in closer. “I won’t let them hurt you. And you don't have to be perfect. Whether human or angel or demon or whatever. You made me a nest. I’ll be damned if I don’t return the favor for you, one way or another.” And he plucked a feather from his wings and tucked it behind her ear.

Her eyes widened as she flushed from the neck. “Crowley!” she exclaimed reproachfully.

“I’m only doing as I damn well please,” said Crowley, removing another one and weaving it into her hair with placid fingers.

“Yes—but—” Aziraphale spluttered.

“Then let me spoil you.” Crowley snapped his fingers. A crisp black robe hung from one hand, nearly identical to the one he had worn every day over a thousand years before, summoned from a small closet somewhere in London.

Aziraphale took it and blinked at him. “…?”

“It, ah, it never goes out of style,” Crowley hedged. “Or rather, I memorized the template. Put it on.”

Aziraphale slipped it over her head. It clung to her body, but concealed well, although it was a little long; with another snap of his fingers Crowley hemmed it to match her actual height. Heart aglow, Aziraphale looked up. “You swear it won’t disappear at midnight and turn me into a pumpkin?”

“It won’t. Shouldn’t.” Crowley didn't linger on the fact that subconscious imagination was all that made it stay real; but this robe had stayed real for centuries. There was very little chance of it blinking out now. “Anyway, a trip to the mall shouldn’t take that long.” Crowley pulled out his cell phone to bring up maps. “Tailors are few and far between, but what the 21st Century lacks in quality it makes up for in variety and speed. If you can stand being practically naked for all illusive intents and purposes for a while…traces of ethereal substance aside.”

“It will do,” said Aziraphale, smiling. “Thank you, Crowley. I feel that I’ve been...wrapped in your wings.”

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley jerked his head in the direction of the car and leapt into the driver’s seat, shaking the Bentley, and stared up the car. Aziraphale followed, opening the door more sedately, and lowered herself into the passenger’s seat, and shot a warning look at Crowley, willing him not to move until her seatbelt was buckled. At the click, the Bentley shot forward.

* * *

_“Radio goo-goo_

_Radio ga-ga—”_

A soft burst of static interrupted the music. Crowley slapped the dashboard and snapped something at the car stereo so that the sound quality jumped with a slight increase in volume.

_“Radio-o-o, what’s new?_

_Radio, someone still loves you…”_

Aziraphale jerked awake, flustered into mild panic, not knowing where or when or what form he—she—was. The seatbelt bit into her neck, lying uncomfortably crosswise against her breasts. Crowley’s stray hand lightly touched the back of her wrist.

“Angel? Angel, I was just telling off the Bentley.” His eyes flickered sideways.

“Just a dream. Do demons dream? I thought I was in heaven again.” She sat up and scrubbed at her eyes.

Crowley glanced at her but said only, “We’ll be parked in a few minutes. Hold tight,” and let the Bentley scream across the asphalt. Aziraphale willed herself to look out the front window with effort, braced herself, and screeched indignantly, “Darling, there’s a pedestrian!”

Crowley swerved and they ricocheted around the parking structure until Crowley slid, tires squealing, into an improbable parking space.

Aziraphale flung herself out of the vehicle. The Bentley issued a wisp of recalcitrant steam from the engine. “Cut it, you,” Crowley retorted as he slammed the driver’s side door. “Behave.” The Bentley sulkily locked the doors and dimmed its lights, but the blinkers continued to click on and off. Crowley scowled, got back in the car, and turned them off manually. “And that’s why you don’t pick fights you can’t win,” Crowley told the car. “Yes, I know you’re excited, but you could be a _little_ more discreet about it, yeah?” He threw the door shut with a slam.

“Has that car gotten… sentient?” Aziraphale asked anxiously.

Crowley made a face. “Since Adam fixed it, yeah. It’s just going through an adolescent phase. Thinks it’s the hero of its own story or some such nonsense.”

“Hmm.”

Crowley sought her fingers. Aziraphale took his hand, and they linked arms without speaking.

* * *

They stood in front of Victoria’s Secret, as one does. Awkwardly.

“Crowley, my dear, do you have the faintest idea how this is done?” Aziraphale asked him desperately.

“Well, I did work at lingerie for a time, when it was still controversial and seemed the right place to encourage feminine wiles.”

“I don't remember that.”

“I didn’t advertise.”

“But what did you call yourself?”

Crowley sniffed. “Antonia J. Crowley. Naturally.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tried to appear disinterested and failed. “You don’t suppose you could _disguise_ yourself for me?”

Crowley pursed his lips. “I admit I hadn’t thought that far ahead. When _was_ the last time you were female, again?”

The expression of Aziraphale’s eyes did not change, but she blinked. Her eyebrows quirked worriedly in the middle. “I…I don’t remember. I swapped genders as little as possible,” she replied with a sinking feeling. Only when absolutely necessary, an event which was rare. She remembered her opinions from that time, but the reasoning behind them slipped away from her, amorphous. Suddenly she felt anxious. “Ah… back in the medieval period, perhaps?” Some doors would only open to a nun.

“Strange. Hm. I thought you might have done it when you weren’t talking to me.” Crowley inspected some dirt peppering his fingers.

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale, horrified, so that her voice became a squeak. “I could never. I just…didn’t…” She reddened in embarrassment. How was it that she never paid attention? Words and questions Crowley left unvoiced cut at her. As an angel, she was placed on Earth for a reason. To discover that she knew so little of the experiences of half the human race, had never thought once about identifying with them; hadn’t wanted to, honestly. The thought chilled.

But why? Until now, why hadn’t it ever appealed? Nor did it appeal now. But the transition felt necessary.

In the guise of a man, Aziraphale had been close to invisible; assumed capable, but generally speaking, responsible for his conduct and his own conduct alone. Except in times of war, the private life of a man was overlooked. His value to the public was by default. As a woman, such illusions were not sustainable. Women bore life, and were deemed responsible for _all_ potential life in a community. Whether a woman was cherished or ruined, a life lived under the weight of expectations could not be avoided, only countered. A woman's presence disappeared only as long as she appeared to continually obey and prove her worth.

In this body, _being_ a woman, she could almost perceive the present sanctity of life, the potential it held, the vulnerability of this form to judgment. Her skin prickled.

 _This is what I hadn’t—_ Her thoughts wailed.

While she was lost in reverie, Crowley pulled his hand from hers. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.” Crowley stepped away from her and strode into the nearest restroom.

Aziraphale gulped. _Get a grip_. She pressed fingers to her temple and waited for Crowley to come back. She spent the minutes counting in her head.

When Crowley came out with a billowy scarf draped over his head, he passed as a woman to anyone who glanced at his profile and didn’t look too closely.

“What did you do?”

“What? Oh, contouring. And some minor adjustments to the jacket, for the sake of the hips. It’s too much trouble to make drastic adjustments these days, most people would rather pay attention to their own business.” Crowley chivvied Aziraphale in front of him, and Aziraphale nervously fluttered out of his way, heading vaguely for the back of the store while Crowley scanned the premises. Crowley herded her into a stall, glanced about them, snapped his fingers to apply a don’t-hear-don’t-notice spell on the closet space, and closed the door.

Aziraphale wrung her hands. “Ah….what now?”

Crowley took a measuring tape out of his pocket, looking bored.

“Oh, right.” She raised her arms.

“Except I can't measure until you take off the robe first.”

“Right.” Aziraphale slipped the fabric over her head and let it puddle on the ground at her feet. Crowley took her measurements briskly. “Right. Well, between my eye and the numbers I should be able to find something, angel. I’ll be back quicker than a flick of a lamb’s tail…”

Aziraphale sank onto a stool.

In a few minutes, the door rattled and Aziraphale jumped. “Occupied!” called Aziraphale, anxious-polite.

“It’s Crowley. The door’s jammed…”

“Ah. Wiggle it harder, maybe!”

“Or you could open it!”

Aziraphale touched the knob and the door fell open. Crowley crashed through, brandishing a fistful of hangers of bras aloft. “Now to see which ones _work_!” he said gleefully, as if this was the best part.

Too quickly, Aziraphale read between the lines: a working fit would be a rarity. “Of course,” said Aziraphale softly, her enthusiasm abruptly waning. She stood up.

Crowley knew when he had lost her attention. He looked at her in mild alarm, and tsked. “I said this would be fun. Do you know why? Because _breasts_!” Crowley shook the bras.

That was nonsensical. Aziraphale scowled. “This must be a bureaucratic process _your_ lot designed.” And she rattled the doorknob as if to walk out.

Crowley, bless him, _pouted_. “Not us. The humans beat us to it. Who could have predicted it, after centuries of corsets, stays, and chemises? It was splendidly mad. A fashionable revolution!”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Then explain sizing.”

“You’re thinking of jean sizing!” Crowley pretended to be wounded and hung the hangers on an attendant hook. “Bras make _much_ more sense.”

She grunted. “Do they?”

“Sure. You have strap length, ribcage girth, and cup size. The girth must stay the same height all the way around so the straps don’t pull, and the breasts must sit in the cups of the right volume without sinking, bulging, or folding. An inconveniently complicated system, but a systematic one. Allow me to demonstrate?”

Aziraphale took a step back and crossed her arms Egyptian-style, hands to the opposite shoulders. “You want to touch my chest.”

Crowley shrugged, then nodded. “…Yes. I can show you better that way.”

“All right.”

Crowley slipped into the space behind her back, reached under her arms, and slid his hands to cup her breasts. Aziraphale squeaked. Crowley’s hands were lightly calloused, rough, and cool to the touch. He thumbed the sides of her breasts. “It’s a _little_ erotic, no?”

She didn’t reply.

Taking the hint, he sighed and got on with it. “If your bra is too tight, your breasts will squish, like so.” Crowley drew his hands closer, increasing pressure. “If it’s too loose, your breasts will sink under the cup, like so.” He released the pressure and her breasts dipped below the line of his fingers. “You see?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“What do you feel?”

Well, on the one hand, a lot of nothing, and then again, a whole lot of something somewhere _else_ , if Aziraphale was honest. Instead she was partly honest, and said half-resentfully, “Like you’re holding a heavy bag of water, or maybe gooey sand. Except it’s _attached_ to me somehow.”

Crowley laughed. “Exactly, darling. Isn’t it an intriguing sensation? Aren’t they lovely?” Releasing her breasts, he kissed her neck and gracefully spun her back around so she faced him. Aziraphale gasped. Fire fell from the kiss to the crown of her head and trickled down to her toes, pooling at her...genitals. Wait. Genitals?

Crap. “ _Crowley_!” She sagged suddenly against him.

“It’s all right, Angel. I made sure no one would take notice of us.”

“It’s not that—I—ah…” Aziraphale sank to her knees, unintentionally dragging at Crowley’s jacket as wings exploded from her shoulders, taking up the tiny space. “Fine, just tickety-boo,” she said weakly, leaning further forward and pushing Crowley back. Feathers, from the downiest pinfeathers to the primaries, fluttered under the sound of Crowley’s soft, gentle laughter. “You planned this,” she accused.

"No." Crowley reached out a hand to casually adjust the space, pushing the walls away, chuckling. “But I encouraged it.” He allowed his own wings to manifest, black and shadow, edging against the door behind him. “I probably should have had you cup your own breasts,” he reflected to himself, without regret.

“This is _not_ the time,” Aziraphale moaned. Anyway, Crowley was wrong about the cause: it was the kiss that had done it.

“Now is exactly the time,” Crowley replied patiently. “You have a body, and it’s a lot to get used to. But those wings will get in the way of bra-selecting, so we’ll have to wait until we calm down.” He helped Aziraphale perch on her stool, then dragged a stool over to himself and sat, legs crossed. “Let’s talk.”

“Or not.” Aziraphale peeked at him, then covered her face. “Oh, no.”

“Oh yes.” Crowley took a loosening feather from his wings and tickled her with it. “I’ll bet something just happened.”

Aziraphale’s face heated.

The most important question first, then. “Did you open a womb?” he asked frankly.

“N-no.” As loath as she was to do it, she checked, and looked inside herself to make sure. “Not yet.”

Relieved, they sighed inwardly. Aziraphale wiped her face.

“It will happen,” Crowley said. Someday.

“I, I— I know, but don’t _say_ it!” Aziraphale hissed. “It’s _complicated_!”

“Because of heaven?”

Aziraphale glared at him.

“Angel, what’s the worst that could happen?”

She shook her head, fiercely. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—didn’t want to—imagine. But it would be very, very bad.

“They either kick you out for good, or they take you back. They mock you for being the first to have children in the last millennia, shacking up with your worst enemy, which they _already know about_. Wait.” Crowley stilled. “They take the—”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shutup, shut it, shhh, you _shush_!” Aziraphale flew to stop Crowley’s lips with her finger.

But his thoughts had already turned inward. “Fledglings,” murmured Crowley, one word against her finger.

Aziraphale let go and dropped her eyes to Crowley’s shoulder. “I can’t have children.”

Crowley did not argue. He clasped her hand and said, “My lot’s little better, but as for what can be said, they have no use for little angels.”

Aziraphale nodded. Small comfort, but it was something. A small ball of tightness inside her eased.

“We take small pleasures when and while we can,” said Crowley, softly.

“… Hedonist.”

Crowley kissed her. Having contemplated that, Aziraphale kissed back, and they traded kisses in hungry silence broken only as they parted to breathe.

Finally Aziraphale’s wings faded in the calm, and they concluded their business. Through a series of trial and error, they worked through the styles that Crowley knew and some that he did not know—as evidently, the fashions had evolved since he had last paid attention to them. When they were done, it was sunset, and Aziraphale had a collection of wireless bras in light blue and peach and beige and sparkling white. Crowley had also found a small skimpy black bra for himself in the process that he was quite pleased to squirrel away.

“I think you’ll be very satisfied,” said Crowley as he was rung up at the cash register. "And we'll come back for the rest another time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bentley ships it. hehe. ;) <3
> 
> The "nonsensical" aspects of Crowley's dialogue here has more to do with his being a stick figure in any gender and being a tiny bit jealous of Aziraphale's ampleness than gender divisions or horniness. He's just enthusiastic and trying hard to distract Aziraphale from the glooms.
> 
> They're trying a little too hard to read each other, which backfires sometimes.


End file.
